4 A Blind Eye
by piccolina789
Summary: Fourth in the series of post-episode stories. Spoilers for all CSI season four episodes, starting with "Assume Nothing". GSR.
1. Out of You and Me

**A/N: **Unfortunately, this season brings more angst. But there are some great moments coming up that I can't wait to write about!

Spoilers for episodes 4x1 and 4x2, Assume Nothing and All For Our Country.

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><p>I knew a thing or two about bullies.<p>

Just because I was a ghost in high school, didn't mean that I floated by unnoticed from day to day. I encountered my fair share of jocks and football quarterbacks hyped up on testosterone that just loved to shove the nerdy kid with glasses around. And somehow, from day to day, I managed to wipe the blood from my nose or cover the bruise on my arm with my sleeve, and convince my mother that everything was just fine at school, thank you.

The bullies didn't manage to boil my blood then, so why did they now?

Fromansky got to me. That much was certain. I wanted to nail him for everything that he stood for, for his skewed notions of justice and brotherhood and his holier-than-thou attitude. And I'd ended up breaking my number one rule: don't get ahead of the evidence.

I wasn't objective. I wasn't following the evidence. I was trying to lead the evidence in the direction I wanted. And _that_, that made my blood boil.

I set up a new target and re-loaded my gun. Usually one round would do it. Today seemed like it needed at least two. I started unloading on the target, relishing the feeling of power coursing through my veins with every shot. I kept my eyes focused and my mind blissfully blank, while I was shooting, nothing mattered but me, the gun and the target. I fired the last shot and pulled my target nearer. Though I'd hit near perfect shots every time, I contemplating re-loading and doing it all over again. It felt so good to be in control of just one thing in my life. I didn't want it to stop.

As I stared at the box of ammunition, I heard someone entering the target area next to me. I had thought it was closed for the night…

But when I backed slowly around the wall separating each target area, I saw Sara, setting up her target and getting ready to unload her gun, just like I had.

And then I did something I'm ashamed of.

I tried to sneak out.

I returned the checked-out gun, signed out of the target area and tried sneaking out the back way, hoping that Sara had already put on her earmuffs and was dulled to any sound around her. It's not that I didn't want to talk to her… exactly. It was just… we had avoided any sort of real communication since I turned down her dinner offer a few weeks ago. I knew that when she'd left that night, she'd been hurt, but I'd done nothing about it.

Then, I'd disappeared for a week after my surgery. I'd told Catherine I'd prefer keeping the specifics of my surgery between us, but to let the team know that I'd had a medical procedure and would be out for a week to recover. Sara tried to play it cool, but I knew she was upset, and perhaps even offended, that I hadn't told her myself.

So to say the least, I probably wasn't Sara's favorite person right now.

But she must not have had her soundproof muffs on yet, because I was only inches from the door when she called out.

"Hello?"

"Uh… hi."

"Grissom?"

She backed out of her target area and emerged with a confused look upon her face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Just… unloading," I said as she smirked. "In more ways than one."

"Good way to let off steam."

I nodded. I knew she was waiting for me to say something, but not a single word sprang to mind.

"You, uh, here for any particular reason?"

"No," I said, a little too quickly. I could see the doubt flash across her face. "Well, I'll, uh… let you get to it."

"Yeah, sure," she grumbled.

I had obviously done it again. Said something to upset her. I really don't know how I had such a knack for it, when I didn't even know when I was doing it. I should have said something else, maybe should have stayed and fired a few rounds with her, but I just couldn't. I wasn't ready for Sara Sidle just yet, not ready to sit down and figure out what all these emotions of hers meant.

So I went out the back door, as quietly as before, with the sounds of rapid fire going off behind me.


	2. Two of a Kind

**A/N: **I'd forgotten how sad this episode is! I've taken some creative liberties with Sara and her backstory, but hopefully, it is all still in character and believable. I feel like there are a lot of underlying issues with many of the characters this season, and I am going to try hard to emphasize that.

Spoilers for episode 4x3, Homebodies.

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><p>I let myself sit in the car for ten minutes.<p>

Ten minutes. That was all I was going to give myself, to grieve for Suzanna, feel guilty for what had happened to her, for what I couldn't prevent. Then, I told myself, I would get back out there and be the professional that, somewhere, way deep down, I knew I could still be.

I gathered myself up and walked towards the crime scene. Brass was talking to Suzanna's parents. Grissom was processing her body.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

I stared at her for a while, her body bloody and lifeless on the ground, not knowing what to do or think or say. The hand on my shoulder nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"Are you okay?"

Grissom's voice was soft, and his face was concerned, but that didn't help any. I'd lied to him last time, said I was fine when I wasn't, but I didn't think I could manage it again.

"I don't think I can handle this," I whispered.

"Go home," he said. "Nick's on his way, and if I need to, I'll call Warrick. Get some rest."

I nodded dully. His words should have been comforting, but words weren't what I wanted right then. I wanted to cry some more, something I felt like I'd been doing a lot lately, but this time, I wanted to cry in his arms. I wanted to push everything that had happened between us aside for two minutes and just let him hold me while my emotions spilled over. I just wanted someone to comfort me. But that was not Grissom, and that was not how he handled things like this.

So as he turned back to the crime scene, to Suzanna's crime scene, I walked back to my car, got behind the wheel and drove myself, trance-like, back home. My apartment was quiet and empty, as always. How was this a good idea? There was nothing to comfort me here. All I could do here was sit and cry some more, something I did not want to do.

So I went to the fridge, extracted a bottle of light beer and drained it in minutes. I had little in my stomach, but the bitter taste seemed to fill me up. I reached for another, and as I closed the refrigerator door, my eyes stopped to linger on a name and phone number stuck to the fridge by a magnet. I pulled the piece of paper loose, took a seat at the counter, and stared at it as I drank. I'd looked up the number a few weeks ago, after the lab explosion. I'd never used it.

Maybe it was about time I did.

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><p>"I'm glad you called, Miss Sidle."<p>

I took a seat in a big leather chair and nodded.

"I've talked to your friend Greg Sanders a few times, and he's mentioned you," she went on. "Said you were also injured in the lab explosion."

I nodded again.

"That's not why I'm here," I said.

I shifted uncomfortable. I'd never liked shrinks. I never thought they helped. They made me see one when I was younger, before I entered foster care and several times while I was in the system. My grumpiness and reluctance to talk never resulted in any progress. The shrinks gave up on me, just like everyone else in my early life had, and I was left to fend for myself.

But if I wasn't going to get comfort from my friends, especially from the one person I desperately needed it from, I needed to seek it elsewhere. I convinced myself that talking to someone who knew about the kinds of things I was dealing with would help. It was worth a shot, anyway.

"Why are you here, Sara?" the department psychologist asked softly.

"It was spring break during my junior year of college," I began reluctantly. "I was younger than all my friends, but that didn't stop me from going to Miami with them. Our last night, there was a party. I was drinking. I couldn't…"

"What happened?" she pressed.

"I couldn't see who it was," I finished. "But I never reported it. I was too ashamed."

"And what made you start thinking of this? Are you wanting to report it now? Are old memories, old horrors, resurfacing?"

I shook my head.

"No," I said. "I just… there was this case. And… I couldn't help but empathize with the victim. I know how hard it can be to face what happens to you. Back then, I didn't have the courage to do it. She almost did."

"And what happened?"

"She died," I said dully. "And I didn't do a thing to stop it. The same thing could have very easily happened to me, but—"

"But it didn't."

"What does it matter, if I can't stop it from happening to other girls?" I said angrily. "I was supposed to help her."

The psychologist leaned back into her chair, studying me, and I quickly broke eye contact. I hated being looked at like I was a specimen, and immediately, doubts over whether this had been a good idea at all started sweeping over me.

"We can talk through this," she said eventually. "But I think there's a lot more issues present that we haven't touched on. What would you say to making regular appointments with me?"

I stood from the chair immediately.

"No," I said firmly. "No thank you."

"Miss Sidle…"

"This was a mistake," I said, heading towards the door. "Thanks for your time, but this won't help me."

"Sara," she called out. "If you won't let me help you, how will you deal with this?"

I stared at her a moment before opening the door.

"The only way I know how."

I closed the door behind me, all too ready to go back to my apartment, where I could be alone.


	3. Visible Proof

**A/N: **Geez, when will the fluff kick in? Thanks for sticking with me through all this angsty angst! Have a great weekend :)

Spoilers for episode 4x7, Invisible Evidence.

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><p>Proximity makes reality disappear.<p>

For a while, at least.

When I stood close to Sara, I heard what she was saying, but the words slipped through my fingers like running water. The bloody sheets were right behind her, they were what I was supposed to be examining, but she was closer. She was right in front of me, so close, and she was all I could see. I couldn't help it. Heat coursed through my body through our closeness. I could smell her shampoo. See every freckle on her face. My hands were at her sides, and it would have been so easy just to place them on her hips and draw her even closer to me, eradicating the few inches that were keeping her from me.

But as soon as she stepped away, reality came crashing down. I had no right to touch her the way I wanted to. I'd been distant with her, resisted confiding in her about my surgery, then spoken harshly to her. I knew she was upset with me, both for the stark words we'd exchanged in the break room, and for the way I'd been treating her lately. She had every right to be concerned with the effects of our relationship on her career.

But she still startled me.

I obviously had no idea how to handle her. The others I had figured out, for the most part. Catherine was best approached as a confidant. She liked knowing she was trusted, and that she could trust in me. Warrick needed guidance, a strong hand on his shoulder and suggestions about what to do, without telling him directly. Nick sometimes needed reminding of his competency and his ability to handle tough situations. But as long as he knew he had my support, he'd be fine.

Sara was the wild card. I could never tell with her. Sometimes it seemed like she wanted nothing but to have me around. She'd asked me to dinner, after all. And then, other times, it seemed like she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. Lately, it seemed more like the latter. But how could I fix the problem, when she wouldn't let me near it? How was it so easy to guide Warrick, help him out of a difficult spot and restore his confidence, when I was so completely powerless to do the same for Sara?

At any rate, I was exhausted, just like I knew the rest of the team was, and after court adjourned, and Warrick took care of the media circus, all I wanted to do was to go home and get some sleep. And hopefully, finally, get Sara off my mind. But I had to make one last stop back at the lab, fill out the necessary paperwork for the filing and the case. When I was finally done, I leaned back in my desk chair, staring at the light coming through my open door. I sighed. I could picture Sara standing there, as she'd done so many times before. Trying to explain to me how difficult it was to disconnect her feelings of empathy for the victims. Asking me to dinner – asking me for something that I could not give her.

I sighed again, wondering once more when things between us had gotten so complicated. But in that moment, I decided that if I didn't know how to handle her, how to handle her emotions, I would do the only thing I knew how to do. I would remain professional, detached, and stay distant. If she needed me, I told myself, she would come to me.

Or so I hoped.


	4. After the Shift

**A/N: **I know this is early, but I have to work today, so I figured better early than late. But if you haven't watched the episode yet, you've been warned :)

Spoilers for episode 4x8, After the Show.

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><p>We found the girl. The guy who killed her was behind bars. Our job was done. I should have been happy, relieved, at least, but the pit of my stomach was still bubbling with anger. I wanted out of and away from the lab as soon as possible, feeling that I might just snap at the first whatever unfortunate person I encountered. I rounded the corner, thinking I might be able to make it out of there unnoticed, when I came face-to-face across the hallway with Greg. We stared at each other for a few moments.<p>

"No hard feelings?" he asked hopefully.

While his puppy-dog-eyes and pouted lip didn't make my anger completely dissipate, there was no way I was yelling at him now. I sighed.

"No hard feelings."

He jogged a couple of steps to catch up with me.

"For the record, if I were a killer, I'd pick you as my criminalist," he offered.

I let out a silent snort.

"Thanks, Greg."

"No, seriously," he continued. "I think you're… y'know… kinda prettier than Catherine. And way smarter."

"You heard what Delhomme said in interrogation."

"Maybe."

"Well, _for the record_, that's not what's bothering me," I told him.

We'd reached the parking lot and I made towards my car.

"Grissom?" he called as my fingers reached my door.

"It's a long story, Greg," I sighed.

"I got time," he shrugged. "If you do. Breakfast?"

"I don't want your pity breakfasts," I said.

"Think of it more as a… peace offering?"

I sighed again.

I don't know how it happened, but soon enough, we were seated in two squishy booths at Frank's, a plate full of eggs in front of each of us.

"So… did you like being in the field?" I asked. "Working for Catherine?"

"You're avoiding my question," he said.

"I'll answer yours if you answer mine."

"Then yes," he said. "I liked being in the field. This was more hands-on than anything else I've helped with. It felt good. And Catherine was great. But if I were to get in the field… I'd want you to help with my training."

I rolled my eyes.

"Greg, you don't have to butter me up any more," I said, wondering if I would have enough patience to mentor Greg in fieldwork. "I already said I'd answer your question."

"So shoot."

"It's… everything," I said. "Tough cases, not enough sleep… self-doubt."

"Self-doubt?"

I nodded.

"You heard about the key position promotion?"

"You're up for it, right?" he asked. "And Nick too?"

"And a few others," I confirmed. I took a sip from my coffee mug, then another, and another, before setting it down and staring at it. "I don't think I'm going to get it."

I lifted my gaze. He looked both concerned and confused.

"Why wouldn't you?" he said. "Out of anyone… I'd think you'd be a shoo-in for the promotion."

"Well, then it's too bad you're not the one picking who gets it."

"Seriously, Sara," he continued. "You're one of the best CSIs in the lab. And besides, you and Grissom—"

"What about me and Grissom?" I interrupted, feeling anger already flushing through me.

"N-nothing," Greg stumbled, obviously surprised. "I just… it just always seemed like you guys were close."

"And lately, it seems like he trusts me?" I asked. "Respects me…"

"No," Greg said softly, cutting me off before I could go on. "No, it hasn't seemed like that lately. So that _is_ what's been bothering you."

"It's just frustrating," I replied. "I think I start to understand him, and then he does or says something that just throws me way off base. One minute we're fine, and the next…"

"He treats you like you're invisible," Greg finished.

"Is it that obvious?"

He shrugged.

"Maybe I'm just observant," he said. "Or maybe it's cause I like you, so I notice when people are being mean to you. But either way, neither of you have seemed like a big fan of each other's lately."

"I'm not," I assured him. "But Grissom…"

Greg waved his hand.

"Who needs him?"

I stared at him.

"He's my boss, Greg," I said. "Yours too."

"Yeah, well the lab needs him," he conceded. "And while it's true that he does still scare me, I have learned a few things in the last few years, and I know that he's still capable of making mistakes."

"So you're saying…"

"I'm saying, don't bother yourself too much about what he says or doesn't say, or what he does or doesn't do."

I nodded slowly, wishing that that were as easy to do as it was to say. But Greg was staring at me expectantly, so I nodded and gave him a small smile that I hoped said, 'I'll try'.

"Greg, I really appreciate… this," I said. "But… can we keep this between us? I mean, don't tell anybody what I said."

"Of course not," he said immediately. "I wouldn't do that."

"I know," I said. "Thanks."

I handed him a ten-dollar bill to cover my eggs and the tip and slid out of the booth. Most of the anger that had accompanied the Julie Waters case had started to simmer down, but I knew I had to either take a good hot shower, go on a long run, sleep a lot, or maybe all of the above, before I was able to return to the lab with a blank slate again. I didn't blame any of my anger on Greg or Nick, but it would take some serious deep breaths to be civil to Catherine or Grissom next shift. Poor Warrick didn't know what he'd missed.

"Hey, Sara?" Greg called out.

I turned.

"I really hope you get the promotion," he said.

I smiled at him.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad having Greg around in the field after all. One more person to work with who wasn't, well… Grissom.


	5. Bereaved

**A****/N: **I caught a blooper yesterday! In "Coming of Rage", Warrick looks at a hammer Sara bagged, but her name on the label is spelled "Sarah". HA! Caught ya ;)

Anyway, this was tough. If you review any chapter on this story, let me know what you think of this one. Cause I really wanted to get it right.

Spoilers for episode 4x12, Butterflied.

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><p>It was a nightmare come to life.<p>

That Debbie Marlin looked like Sara wasn't the reason I was anxious. It was upsetting, of course. But that wasn't what scared me. It was the fact that I'd dreamt, time and time again, different scenarios of Sara hurt, Sara dying, Sara dead. And starting at Debbie was like seeing my nightmares, each and every one of them, personified. It shocked me in a way that no body, decomposed, infested with insects or chopped into pieces, didn't seem to any more.

Talking to Lurie… I seemed to lose all sense of place and time. Jim, Lurie's lawyer, even Lurie himself, melted into darkness as it dawned on me… the implications of the life I'd chosen. There was no going back now. And though Lurie told himself he was still here, still present, still functioning, and that might have been enough for him, it wasn't enough for me. I knew that, even though I'd made my choice consciously and willfully, I'd never be able to live an entirely satisfied life. Because I'd always have that one lingering, unanswered question of what could have been.

It was all a big game of _what if? _What if I'd brought Sara to Vegas immediately after meeting in her California, like I'd wanted to? What if I'd acted on my feelings for her when she moved here, like I'd longed to? What if I'd let myself put trust in her? What if I'd let her fully know me? What if, instead of pushing her away, I did the opposite, and pulled her close to me? Would I have someone to go home to every night? Would I have been happier?

Maybe. Maybe not. But I'd never know.

Slowly, I gathered up the case file, my glasses and a stray pen and walked straight out of the interrogation room and out of P.D. I said not a word to Jim, whom I knew was smart enough to know who it was I was referencing. I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't even want to think about it, but Sara was all I could think about.

I told myself it would do no good to dwell on the what if, because it would never be.

But it didn't help.

Because if I were to be honest with myself, my heart had belonged to Sara for a long time.

I just couldn't admit it to her. Or to anyone else, for that matter.

Once, when I was in kindergarten, I had a whale-sized crush on Martha Reynolds from down the street. She liked baseball and mud, and didn't seem to be interested in any of the other boring, frilly stuff the other girls her age were interested in. She was my perfect woman (at age five), and I was convinced we were supposed to get married and spend a lifetime of happiness together… if it weren't for Matthew Moss. I'd crushed on Martha for weeks, but all of a sudden, out of the blue, Matthew decided he liked her too, and that was that. He gave her a packet of M&Ms, her favorite candy, coincidentally, and told her it was named after them. Martha&Matthew. Matthew gave Martha her first kiss by the playground that afternoon.

I remember crying in my mother's kitchen for hours over my lost love. When I wailed about how much I hated Matthew for stealing her from me, my mother told me, _'now that isn't fair. Martha didn't even know how you felt about her'_. Which was true. But did nothing to ease my breaking five-year-old heart.

Since I obviously couldn't confess my love to Martha in person, she suggested I write a letter to her, saying all the things I wanted to say, but couldn't. So I did. I wrote pages upon pages in green crayon, then stuffed them all in an envelope and scribbled her name on it. When my mother told me I couldn't mail it, I was furious… until I realized that getting my feelings out was the only thing that had made me feel better. I felt lighter. And I went to school the next day, perfectly happy with Matthew and Martha and their M&Ms.

My mother's lessons always stuck with me, so, incredibly, the first thing I did when I returned to my townhouse that night was to take out a piece of paper and a fountain pen, an upgrade from the crayon that came with age. I swallowed hard, unsure whether I knew what I would say to Sara even if I could, but as soon as the tip of the pen touched the paper, the words came flowing out, like they were waiting to escape all this time.

_Dear Sara, _I wrote. _Henry Louis Mencken once wrote, "The one permanent emotion of the inferior man is fear – fear of the unknown, the complex, the inexplicable. What he wants above everything else is safety."_

_ Honey, I am an inferior man. I am afraid of change. I'm afraid of what it will bring. I'm afraid of leaping into the unknown, taking chances and having faith in the unfamiliar. I am a creature of habit, Sara, and in my habits is where I dwell. I just can't break free of them, no matter how much I've wanted to, or even tried. _

_ And you, honey, you are a superior woman. A wonderful woman. And you deserve someone who will remind you of that, every single day. _

_ I'm sorry I can't be that person for you, Sara. I wish I could. You may not believe me, but I really do. You don't know how long I've cared about you, how often I've sat just thinking of you, and how much I wish for your happiness._

_ Worst of all, you don't know how proud I am of you. _

_ That's my fault. Sara, I apologize back and forth, up and down, backwards and forwards, for treating you the way I sometimes do. You deserve better than that, especially from me. I often put my own feelings before yours, not realizing how running from my fears can hurt you. _

_ It's not that I'm unwilling to take risks for you, it's that I'm unable. I just can't. _

_ I told you I didn't know what to do about this; about us. That was true. I don't know what to do. I'm confused, I'm worried, I'm anxious and I'm afraid. And Sara, as much as I wish that that could change, I don't think it can._

_ So above all, I want you to know that you are a beautiful, loving, intelligent, compassionate woman whom I care about very much. And from the bottom of my heart, I wish you all the happiness in the world. _

_ I hope you find someone who can give it to you. _

_ All the best, _

_ Gil_

I didn't let myself read through it. I folded the paper, placed it neatly into an envelope and walked to the bookshelf, looking for somewhere I could place it and easily forget where it was. I pulled out the largest book, my multi-volume dictionary, pried it open to a page near the middle-ish, and stuck the envelope in.

I closed the volume so fast, I didn't see that my letter to Sara was stashed right next to the entry for grief; _a keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss. A painful regret. _


	6. Late Rescue

**A/N: **Spoilers for episode 4x15, Early Rollout.

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><p>As far as forensics teams go, the night shift one at the Vegas lab was a pretty darned good one.<p>

Every CSI was competent and skillful, and I enjoyed working with each of them. But if I had to choose one I was fondest of, there was no competition.

I always knew I'd liked the kid. I liked her from the start, because she always reminded me a little of myself. But I couldn't nail down the time when I'd started feeling protective of her. Perhaps it was when my own daughter, Ellie, became involved with an investigation, and I realized how little we had in common and how little she respected me, as compared to how much Sara seemed to respect me and vice versa. I guess I kinda started thinking of her as my pseudo-daughter after that, since my real one didn't want me anyway.

But there _was _one event that shook the foundations a little. And if Gil Grissom thought he could ramble on about a forgone love, and I wouldn't pick up on whom he was talking about, he was sorely mistaken.

I always knew there had to have been something more between them than just a normal supervisor/subordinate relationship. He liked staring at her when he thought no one was looking, and she liked standing far too close to him than what was deemed normal. Did they think I was blind or something?

And I knew Grissom's little show of professional detachment was hurting her. I think everyone could see it, but from what I could tell, no one was reaching out to her. So after the Debbie Marlin case, I took it upon myself to keep a little closer eye on Sara. Act as her guardian angel, of sorts – not seen, but there to catch her if she started to fall.

So even if she resented me for calling her bluff on her cough-drop-charade, I was glad I did it. I wasn't going to let her fall into a drinking problem thinking that no one was catching the signs. After all, as I told her, I _had _been there, _had _done that.

She hadn't said a word to me since, so when I headed to my car after shift that night, I was surprised to see her there, waiting for me. I stopped a few feet short of my car and we both looked at each other.

"It was more than a few," she admitted softly.

I nodded. I'd already known.

"I don't want a lecture," she continued, fidgeting. "But… maybe we can… talk?"

"Of course we can," I said. "Let's get some dessert."

A little sugar made the whole world taste sweeter. That's what my mother used to tell me, anyways. So whenever Ellie had a problem at school, I'd always take her for ice cream, and we'd talk about it. Somehow, problems seemed less threatening with a giant ice cream cone in your hand.

So, sometime later, I was sitting across from Sara in a hotel restaurant, a giant piece of chocolate cake between us. She'd hardly taken a bite.

"What's going on, Sara?" I asked, noticing the concerned, fatherly tone in my voice.

"I was there."

"Where?" I prompted.

"At P.D.," she said slowly. "During Lurie's interrogation. I heard… everything."

My mouth formed in the shape of an "O", and I lowered my fork to the nearly empty cake plate, but I didn't know what to say.

"There's been a lot to handle in the last year," she continued. "The lab explosion, the Julie Waters case, the pressure over applying for the key promotion… it's sucked, but at least I've been able to deal with it. This…"

She tailed off, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, Sara," I said. "I wish I could say I knew why he does what he does, but…"

"I know."

"Would it help if I told you there are plenty of other fish in the sea?" I offered.

"Not really," she sighed. "But thanks anyways."

"Well, then what can I do to help?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, staring at her glass of water. "I – it's nothing. I'll deal with it."

She lifted her gaze.

"Thanks for this," she said with a small smile. "How much do I owe you?"

"It's on me, kiddo," I told her. "You sure you'll be all right?"

She sighed.

"I have to be," she said. "Right?"

I watched her walk away, feeling entirely unhelpful. I trusted Gil with my life, and considered him one of the few people I could call a friend, but that didn't stop me from being frustrated with him. His damn mind games were messing with her head. And while at work or in all matters between us, I'd support Gil completely.

But in this twisted game of love between the two of them, I'd choose her side every time.


	7. Dull Rhythm

**A/N: **Nothing too substantial for this one, but I love that little Sara/Greg hug scene in the beginning of the episode. So this came from that :)

Spoilers for episode 4x20, Dead Ringer.

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><p>"Hey," Greg said as he poked his head into the locker room. "Ready to run?"<p>

"Greg, the race is over," I said, pulling out my jacket and bag. "We don't have to train any more."

He shrugged.

"So?"

I sighed, but smiled in spite of myself, and threw my stuff back in my locker, exchanging them for my running shoes and a pair of shorts. Greg had been a good running partner. I'd tried training with Nick and Warrick once, but the two were so competitive, all they were concerned with was who could make it to the end of the corner, around the block, to the end of the street, faster. I guess they've never heard of slow and steady wins the race. Greg, on the other hand, talked incessantly while we ran, but we matched pace perfectly, and his chatter actually entertained me while we ran.

"Give me ten minutes," I told him.

I met him in the parking lot, and after a few minutes of stretching, we took off down the road.

"So how's the training coming, field boy?" I asked.

"Good," he grinned. "So much better than being stuck in the lab all day."

"Rumor has it you're good at it," I said as he raised his eyebrows. "Nick."

"Well," he said, considerably surprised, but also sounding pleased. "I guess I like the guy after all."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"But I can't find _anybody_ to possibly take my place in DNA," he continued. "And it won't matter how much training I get or how good I am at field work if I can't find a replacement. I mean, DNA isn't _that _bad. And the lab's far enough away from Trace and freakin' Hodges."

I snorted. I didn't like the guy either.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," he went on. "I mean, I'm going to be so disappointed if all this work turns out to be for nothing, and I can't get into the field."

"You will," I cut in to reassure him. "You'll find someone."

"Thanks," he said, grinning. "And what about you? How have you, y'know… been doing lately?"

I chewed on my lip. Greg had been really helpful last we'd talked. He hadn't fixed any of my problems, but he sure made me smile about them, at least for a little while. I'd been looking forward to this run to listen to Greg's babble and clear my mind… but maybe a little conversation on my end wouldn't hurt.

"Okay, I guess."

"Now that's reassuring."

I shrugged.

"I'm dealing with it."

"Have you heard anything about the promotion yet?"

"Not yet," I said. "Rumors… but nothing factual."

"Well, you still have my vote."

This was why I loved Greg.

"And I _still _haven't gotten to work with you in the field," he said. "Will you bestow all your knowledge onto me, Oh Great Sara Sidle?"

I laughed.

"You're a dork, Greg."

"Hey, dorks can be lovable."

I elbowed him in the side as we ran.

"Yes, they can."

For the rest of our run, Greg rambled on about what he'd learned in the field so far, what he wanted to learn, what was on T.V. that night, the new club opening up downtown and the snowboarding trip to Denver that he was planning. I ran silently, appreciating the fact that Greg was able to lift my spirits in a way no one else could. I came home with a smile on my face.

But the minute I stepped foot in my apartment, the unhappiness flooded over me once more. It was like some stupid illness that I couldn't fight off, the symptoms would fade for a little while, and I'd think everything was all right, but the second I started thinking things might be better now, it came back in full force. Grissom wasn't acting _as _impassive lately as he had been, but… that still didn't mean he was acting like my friend again, either. Things were far from normal.

My run with Greg left my stomach growling, so I kicked my shoes off and opened the fridge. I sighed. I'd desperately needed groceries for weeks now, but it was one more thing I had neglected. My fridge contained exactly three cartons of vanilla yogurt and a six-pack of beer.

I didn't feel like yogurt.

Beer it was.


	8. No More Charades

**A/N: **Sarapals knew this scene was up next :)

Spoilers for episode 4x22, No More Bets.

* * *

><p>"Hey."<p>

I looked up to see Sara standing in my doorway. She'd been busy during the Sam Braun deal, wrapping up her own murder/suicide. I'd brought her in only long enough to help me process Sam's limo… and realize how much damage I'd caused by recommending Nick over her for the promotion.

"Hi," I said cautiously. "What can I do for you?"

"I need an answer, Grissom," she said, taking a seat in front of my desk.

I looked sideways, and back at her.

"An answer for what?"

"Why didn't you choose me for the promotion?"

I sighed.

"We went over this, Sara," I said evenly.

"Yeah, I know, you recommended Nick because he didn't care if he got it," she quoted. "Which is a really diplomatic answer that doesn't really answer anything at all."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me what's really going on," she said. "If you have a problem with me, or with my work, I'd really rather just know."

"There's no problem, Sara," I said, wishing I'd refused to have this conversation at all. "Your work is fine."

"What is it then?" she asked, exasperated. "Were you afraid of how it would look?"

"Since when have I ever cared about how things look?"

"Since you met me," she quipped.

I stopped short and stared at her. Slowly, I put my pen down on my desk. I was at an absolute, complete loss as to how to handle this; what to say to her. I knew she'd be upset when she heard she didn't get the promotion. She'd always been passionate about her career. And I expected a lot of her anger to be directed at me. But obviously, whatever issues she had with me went a lot further than just passing her up on a recommendation. I didn't know where to begin.

"Look, I would have understood," she said. "Had you just told me. But you didn't. Instead, I had to listen to the rumors circulating around the lab, and finally hear it from Nick. And now…"

She tailed off.

"Now, what?" I prompted.

She shook her head.

"Never mind."

She rose from her seat.

"Sara…"

She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"What?"

"I—I…" I stumbled.

She shook her head in indignation.

"Why is it so hard for you to talk to me, Grissom?" she asked. "I'm not asking for much. A little communication. Respect."

Her words instantly reminded me of a similar situation, years ago, when she'd threatened to leave the lab because of a lack of those same things in the workplace. Meaning there was a lack of those things coming from me. Somehow, I didn't think that a delivered plant and an apology would cut it this time. How had we ended up here?

We kept looking at each other, and for the first time in what seemed like a really, really long time, I saw her. Really saw her. Did she always look this sad? When had her smile been replaced by this permanent look of desperation and defeat? And worst of all, was I the cause of it?

I swallowed hard and met her gaze.

"I don't know what to say," I said quietly.

Sara stared at me just a moment more.

"Don't worry," she said, already turning on her heel to leave. "Sometimes not giving an answer… is the answer. And you've made yourself perfectly clear."

And with that, she left.


	9. Bloodlines

**A/N: **And thus, we've reached the end of season four. Thanks for sticking with me, guys. It means the world to me.

Depending on whether or not I have to work today, the next story will be started either tonight or tomorrow. I'll see you there :)

Spoilers for episode 4x23, Bloodlines.

* * *

><p>It was the quietest car ride of my life.<p>

I wanted to say something, anything, to break the silence, but I knew as soon as my mouth opened, words would get choked up in my throat, and tears would fall instead, because I was mad, so mad, for being stupid, _so_ stupid. There wasn't anything I could say, no explanation I could offer, that would make this okay. This had to be the final straw. If I wasn't a disappointment to Gil Grissom before, this surely sealed the deal.

But for some reason, the longer we drove, it seemed like the silence in the car wasn't an oppressive one. Grissom didn't seem angry or upset, and he wasn't demanding an explanation or expecting me to talk. He wasn't avoiding my gaze, but he wasn't starting straight at me, either. Instead, he was actually providing me with exactly what I wanted, company, without being overbearing. He was actually being _nice _to me.

Well, this was new.

Too bad it had to take something as drastic as an almost-DUI to get him to notice me.

_A DUI. _

The words ran through my mind and my body filled with shame. This wasn't me. It was a stupid, horrible decision, but it now, whenever Grissom looked at me, it'd probably be all he'd see. Jesus. Not only was I worthless and pathetic, I was a worthless and pathetic _drunk_.

And all of a sudden, we were in my drive. I swallowed hard, willed the tears not to come out, and was able to mutter a solitary word.

"Thanks."

"Come on," he said, tilting his head slightly.

He said if softly, but not nearly quietly enough for me not hear him. Still, it took me several moments to figure out what he meant. He was coming in with me.

We walked to my door, and he followed me in. If the car ride hadn't been uncomfortable, this certainly was. I couldn't remember the lat time we'd been along together in a private space. I tossed my purse onto the countertop and pressed my palms into the fake marble. I stared at the countertop as I spoke.

"Why are you here?"

He was still by the door, I could tell by the soft sounds of his movements. He was unsure of what to do, how to act, being alone with me in my apartment, but I wasn't offering him any clues.

"I-I want to make sure you're okay."

"Yeah, Grissom," I said venomously. "I'm great."

"Sara…"

I turned to face him.

"I don't need to be taken care of," I said. "Not even tonight."

He continued to stare at me with those unblinking, unbelievably blue eyes, and I could only shake my head.

"What are you doing here?" I repeated, a pleading tone in my voice this time.

"Can I… can I sit?" he asked hesitantly.

I nodded and he sat on the edge of my couch, waiting expectantly for me to join him. I wrapped my arms tightly around my middle and reluctantly sat in the chair facing the coffee table. I waited for him to begin, as I wasn't ready to talk quite yet.

"Speaking as your supervisor, I need to tell you that this will go in your file and on your record," he said eventually. "But if you do the mandatory PEAP counseling, it'll only be there for a year, and then it's gone. And I know this won't happen again."

I nodded and he sighed.

"Good," he said.

He reached out to take my hand, like he did back at P.D., but this time the contact startled me.

"Now, speaking as your friend, I'm worried about you," he continued. "This isn't the woman that I met in San Francisco five years ago. Or the one who joined my lab. What's going on?"

"I don't know," I sighed.

"You're going to have to do better than that, honey," he said.

"Don't do that!" I exclaimed, hurt and upset by his use of the endearment.

"Don't do what?" he asked, obviously confused. "Sara. Please. Just tell me what's going on, so I can help you."

"I'm not a drunk," I said quietly.

"I know."

"It's just… these cases, dealing with them… it's been harder and harder on me lately," I said. "I guess I just turned to the wrong thing to help me deal."

"The Linley Parker case was hard on you," he said softly.

"So was Suzanna Kirkwood," I added. "So has a lot of other things. It's all been too much to handle, and it's left me feeling… alone."

Our hands were still lightly touching, but through our gentle contact, I could feel that his worry and anxiety were not tapered just yet.

"Is that all, Sara?"

I swallowed hard and took deep breaths, not wanting to go down the road we were heading, but knowing it had to be traveled.

"No," I breathed, trying to summon the courage to say what had to be said. "Lately, I… I've been…"

He gave my fingers the slightest squeeze. I wished he'd stop touching me. Then maybe it'd be easier to think.

"You can tell me, Sara," he said encouragingly.

"I've been feeling… worthless," I said finally.

"Worthless?" he repeated, stunned. "Sara—"

"It's been one thing after the other, Grissom," I said, cutting him off and feeling a lot better now that I'd finally said the words aloud. "I'm worthless in relationships…"

He flinched just a little, and I knew he realized I was referring to Hank.

"I'm worthless at work…

"Sara—"

"Please listen to me," I pleaded as he tried to interrupt again. I continued, but my voice began to shake. "I could have done that case. Julie Waters. I couldn't believe you didn't trust me enough to handle it. I lost faith in myself after that."

Finally, he was silent, and though I felt a little guilty for being so in-your-face, the time had come. And I wasn't about to stop then.

"You passed me up for the promotion," I said softly, and a little hesitantly. I knew it was a moot point, because Nick hadn't technically received the promotion either, but the humiliation of it still hurt. "I thought I deserved it. Apparently, you didn't."

"I don't know what to say," he said quietly.

His repetition of the words from our talk in his office made anger flush through me.

"I'm tired of being brushed aside," I said angrily. "I'm tired of feeling incapable and distrusted. That's mostly what drove me to tonight, Grissom. And I can't do it any more."

I came close, so close, to telling him I'd been in the room for his confession to Dr. Lurie. Because while that was another contributing factor to my worthlessness, and while I now knew exactly why he could never admit he felt the same way about me as I felt for him, I couldn't go down that road right then. It was too painful.

He removed his hand from mine, but only to put it to his face and rub his temples. His fingers slid from forehead to chin and back a few times, and he breathed out deeply. I was proud of myself for what I'd said, and for saying it without crying. I wasn't looking for pity or apologies or even friendship, but I had needed to get everything off my chest, and now, it was gone.

"How do I fix this?" he said eventually.

"I don't know if you can."

"I can't leave here tonight knowing you're upset, Sara," he said.

"I don't want your pity."

"I don't pity you, Sara," he said. "Just tell me what to do about this."

"Look, you wanted to know what was bothering me, and I've told you," I said curtly. "We've established that this won't happen again. I'll do my sessions. You've fulfilled your role as a supervisor. I'm fine."

"But, as your friend—"

I didn't say anything to stop him, but the oh-so subtle shaking of my head and the pain in my eyes was enough to leave him speechless. We both knew what I was saying. We weren't friends. Not right now, anyways. Too much had passed between us to make it all okay with a simple touch of my hand.

There was so much left to say, but no way to say it. We both sat for moments, silent, both staring at each other and trying hard not to look the other in the eye. I didn't mean to be rude, didn't mean to be curt, but there was nothing that Gil Grissom could offer me right now. I needed to heal on my own, and I would, eventually. I always did.

He rose from the couch, went to the door and paused with his fingers on the handle. He turned towards me, and looked back at me with such a wistful, melancholy expression that I almost changed my mind right then and there. But of course, I didn't.

"I'm sorry, Sara," he said.

And he left. The door pressed closed behind him, and I was left alone with a headache that hand nothing to do with alcohol.

And that's when the tears began to flow.


End file.
